Behind These Walls
by SylverSpyder
Summary: This is a story I also have on Psychfic based on jaderoses The Jig is up challenge. Basically, Shawn and Gus are in prison for fraud and become suspects in an sbpd case. The end will be added as I write it.
1. Prologue

Santa Barbara, 1993

Shawn Spencer watched through the one eye not swollen shut from inside his father's patrol car as Henry Spencer slipped cuffs around a shivering Alan McPherson s wrists and handed him off to his partner. The young Karen Vick, her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and mouth preesed into a thin line, yanked him roughly away. If Henry Spencer had snapped the cuffs on a little too tight, no one mentioned it. As Alan was dragged away, Shawn's eye followed him. Alan glared, the rage from the narrowed eyes practically palpable.

As soon as Alan was on his way to the lock up awaiting trial, Henry stormed back to the patrol car.

"Dammit, Shawn! You can't hang around people like that! He's a criminal! He blew the brains out of a damn civilian's head robbing a liquor store!" Shawn winced, bowing his head. He hadn't known. He hadn't known until he'd arrived and seen the blood, splattered on his 'friend's' face, obscuring his grin.

Henry simply continued. He couldn't understand, as he wrenched the wheel around another corner, why Shawn would do this to him. Was he that bad of a father? He gripped the wheel until his knuckles turned bleach white, bloodless. The image of the blood on Shawn's split lip rose unbidden in his mind, and he swallowed down the sudden urge to glance back at his son. Instead, he ground more words out from between his clenched teeth, eyes rooted on the road.

"And when he called you to say he was in some trouble with the cops, you didn't call me until you saw his face plastered across the headlines! It's only because you, as always, were so oblivious that I managed to keep the station from pressing charges for aiding, abetting and harboring a fugitive! You can't stay around people like that or do dumb shit like that anymore. You could end up dead, or worse! In prison." The words tumbled out of Henry's mouth like knives.

"What would I have to say about being a cop with a son in prison? How could I show my face at the station?" Henry continued to rant while Shawn stared, unseeing, out the window, absorbing his father's words like blows.

"My son is a common criminal, and worse, he wouldn't even survive in prison! You'd be shanked in minutes because you're so obnoxious, and I would understand!... " Henry caught his breath for a moment at the image of Shawn lying in a pool of his own blood, like one of the victims Henry routinely dealt with.

As it sped over the moonlit road, Shawn stared sightlessly out of the window of the squad car, pulling his knees up to his chin. The dark night stared blankly back at him. The cool leather of the seat made him shiver. Worthless. His father thought so, and obviously he hadn t meant much to Alan either. The car lurched as his father squealed to a stop inches away from running a red light. The sudden stop launched Shawn forward. Instinctively, he threw a hand out in front of him. It hit the cold metal of the divider, a reminder of the division between him and his father, a gap he could never breach. And, to his father, this was the side of the bars Shawn belonged on. Henry's voice never slowed as Shawn stared at his hand, at the bars, his fingers interlocking around the strips of hard steel.


	2. Chapter 1

Six Years Ago

The news anchor's voice was cold, impersonal.

"Due to multiple charges of fraud, impersonating detectives, mishandling of evidence, misleading the police, interfering with official investigations, conspiracy, perjury, disorderly conduct in SBPD s own police station, and a myriad of other charges, today Shawn Spencer and Burton Guster, residents of Santa Barbara California, were convicted to serve a fifteen to twenty-five year sentence in a maximum security prison for their crimes, all of which stemmed from the six year stint during which the accused impersonated psychic detectives to assist the Santa Barbara Police Department. All cases in which they were involved are now formally under review. All parties refuse comment. Adam Hornstock, representative assigned by the state at an earlier time was heard saying that it is shameful, what has occurred. Henry Spencer, accused Shawn Spencer s father, has officially renounced his son. The highly decorated former police officer was not seen attending the trial. And has not been seen since. Unconfirmed reports suggest that he is out of town during the duration of the trial. In further news..."

The tv turned off suddenly as Henry Spencer, reeking of beer and something a little bit stronger, hit the button then threw the remote against the wall. The plastic shattered, shards spraying through the room. He buried his head in his hands, remembering the image of his son being taken into custody, dragged into the back of a police car and locked in. The news had shown footage of Shawn staring docilely out, and it was Henry's worst nightmare all over again, watching the grave hazel eyes of his son... No, he reminded himself. Not his son, not anymore. He took another swig of his beer then crumpled the empty can, chucking it at the trash bin. When it missed, he just stared, then resignedly, clambered from his seat carefully, aware that, although he may not be vomit-all-over-himself-drunk, he was not quite sober either. When he reached the can, he picked it up, examining it for a minute, then threw it away, ready to go back to drowning his sorrows tonight.

Tomorrow- Tomorrow his son was going to jail. Tomorrow was a new day. The first day in a world without Shawn Spencer. Better get used to the idea tonight, Henry thought, ignoring how much the thought of his son's name hurt. He promised himself wearily that he would never allow anyone, least of all Shawn, to cause him pain like this again. No, his son was dead to him, it was easier this way.

It would be like Shawn and Guster never existed in the world of Henry Spencer.

Henry Spencer reached for another beer.


	3. Chapter 2

Present

Head Detective of the SBPD Carlton Lassiter stood stoically in Chief Vick's office, listening to her announcement, noticing how her voice wavered. The thin lines that had recently appeared on her face seemed suddenly more prominent. Her eyes avoided his, for once not direct. The sick feeling in his stomach the past couple of years warned him it was coming, but not how abrupt it would be. The light glinted of the steely hair Karen no longer dyed, another sign of how the years had aged her.

He should be happy. After all, he took great pains to represent himself as a workaholic, self-centered, heartless SOB and caring hadn't ever really been his thing, but especially not now. Still, the news struck him hard.

"Lassiter," her voice was rough, weary. Watching, Lassiter saw her brace herself against the mounds of paperwork that cluttered her desk. Glancing down at his hands, Carlton found himself wondering when, exactly , had she grown so exhausted, and how he had missed it.

"I'm retiring," One hand waved in an abrupt gesture, brushing away the words she had given him no chance to utter. "...and don't protest, we both saw this coming. You'll do for my job, and your record isn't tainted so much in relation to The Incident."

They both knew what incident she was referring to, and Chief Vick had born the brunt of it, even during the IA investigation. Everyone had always known Lassiter was skeptical of His abilities. That was, of course, the He who betrayed them all, almost destroyed Santa Barbara's Boys in Blue, and single-handedly crushed the city's respect for law enforcement. Ever since The Incident, the crime rate had increased rapidly and the solve rate decreased exponentially. However much of a SOB Spencer had been, at least he was effective. Now here was something else ruined by Spencer's downfall. For a second, he allowed himself to reminisce on what it had been like, before Guster's idiotic comment ruined Shawn's 'psychic' plot. His mind crushed the thought. Now, and for the last six years, they had paid for their crimes.

Chief Lassiter felt duty-bound to continue with his protests, even though he knew they were futile.

"No, Detective." Vick cut him off. "Besides, it will give me a chance to spend some time with my daughter, or as much as I can anyway." For a brief moment, the grief Karen bore was visible on her face, etched into the lines that Spencer had left, the only remaining record of Spencer's work. The fallout from the Spencer Incident had ruined the one marriage Lassiter had thought to be infallible, the one that had almost made him believe in love. Now, Karen Vick had joint custody with her ex-husband but, with the influx in crime, still didn't manage to see her daughter much.

"Here," she handed him a manila envelope. It's light weight in his hand seemed horribly final. "Take this. It's your new case, your last case to be precise. Call O'Hara in on this one."

Lassiter nodded in compliance. With so many cases on their workload nowadays, Detectives often dealt with cases single-handedly. In fact, Lassiter struggled to remind himself of the last time he had seen Juliet. The once-blond haired beauty now went by Maggie, after Margaret, her middle name, taking the place of the one that held too many connotations, too many reminders of the past. She perhaps, had been hit hardest by the events six years ago, changing a great deal. Lassiter could not remember one time she had mentioned Shawn's name in the last six years. She simply cut him out of her life like a paper doll. Lassiter had always been afraid of the depth of her hatred for what Shawn did, because it showed how much Spencer, that SOB, had hurt her, a crime more brutal than any case Carlton had ever been assigned.

Lassiter pulled himself out of his admittedly morbid thoughts of what he would do if he ever saw Spencer again and started looking through the case file. Apparently there had been at least one homicide in a Santa Barbara maximum security prison. Lassiter frowned, puzzled by how vague the incident report was.  
>Couldn't the people even write a report? Great, now instead of actually getting to sleep in his apartment for once (instead of his desk), he would be heading off to some godforsaken hellhole with O'Hara. She was going to be pissed when she found out...<p>

He grabbed his phone and pressed number one on speed dial, suddenly all to aware that the only numbers in his phone were the hospital, 911, poison control, the bomb squad, SWAT, the Feds, the Fire Department, take out restaurants, O'Hara, and the Chief. He pressed send.

"O Hara." The voice that barked into the phone was abrupt, cold. Lassiter felt a familiar tightness in his chest.

_Dammit, Spencer, you bastard. _

"Maggie. We have a case"


	4. Chapter 3

"Hey Jackal, did you hear about Puppet? Somebody offed him over in cellblock C." The Kid said, lounging on the concrete floor. He was careful to keep his distance from the dark-haired one everyone knew as Runner, who was sitting in the corner, glinting eyes half open and hand rubbing a scar visible through the scruff on his jaw-line.

The dark haired man with the scowl growled noncommittally. Flinching, the Kid's eyes were drawn to Runner's scowling face. A sudden rush of terror caused a shiver to travel up the young man's spine, his chestnut eyes darting anxiously as he shifted farther away from the killer. A sort of warmth rising in his chest against the frigid fear, reminding him that this was both the most dangerous man he'd ever met, and the best.

The man next to Runner sighed, pausing from his push ups, the lithe muscles in his dark arms bulging under the rings of tattoos. The rings were only broken by the shiny red burns and white scars that split his features like a puzzle, the strong jaw now tilted knowingly towards the Kid. "He knows. He told Puppet it was coming and he didn't listen."

Holding himself up on one arm, the man absentmindedly ran his fingers over his bald head, his thin fingers pausing on the raised scar tissue that bisected his eyebrow.

"So, shit happens." Switching arms, the man began to do one-armed push-ups, eyes focused on the Kid, who was nervously fingering his dreadlocks at this point.

"Yeah? You know they're sending in some outside cops to clean it up?" By this point, the Kid was struggling to sound nonchalant. He was fairly new to the joint, and while the Jackal didn't bother him, he had heard things about Runner, things that made his stomach churn and his eyes dart. The man was a god.

A sniffing sound seemed impossibly loud, coming from the Runner's corner. The Kid froze. They said He could smell fear. He could taste guilt. He could drive a man mad.

A trickle of sweat ran down Kid's forehead. The dark haired man laughed quietly, chuckling for some reason at the comment (or maybe Kid's obvious fear) and making the talkative boy jump. In a nervous gesture, Kid tugged at the bottom of his shirt, swallowing dryly.

He held his ground. This was Runner. Not a villain, not a hero. Runner was his own man. And Jackal was more than just Runner's shadow.

Jackal, the African American one on the floor snorted in derision, switching sides of his one-armed push ups so that he could look at the other man, one eyebrow quirked in amusement.

Perched in the corner with his back braced against the wall, Runner shot him a falsely innocent look, a bizarre impression sweeping over the Kid at the sight. Beneath the tattoos and scars, Kid could've sworn Runner looked... nice. Kid found himself studying the face. It was an expression he had rarely seen.

Not since the incident that changed him from Steven to 'the Kid,' not since his stepfather's fist struck his cheek and the gun went off in his hand... He shook his head away from the gaze.

Runner had saved his life once, but that didn't mean he was spared from Runner's words, from the eyes that dissected him.

"Come on, Runner, you're scaring the Kid." The Jackal's voice came out as a deep growl. Kid struggled to avoid glancing at the scar that stretched across the man's throat, having heard the story behind it. The two men he sat by were legends. Dangerous, but good men.

The dark haired man's eyes flew open and his expression changed in an instant at Jackal's statement, his face suddenly consumed with a mischievous grin that didn't meet his eyes. They remained flat, blank, devoid of any expression Kid had perceived earlier. His countenance was mildly disturbing.

"That right?"

Kid winced, remembering the feeling of pain as a hard fist struck his abdomen, remembering the whisper of his stepfather's breath against his ear. Remembered the day he almost died.

He owed these men his loyalty. They were great men. Someday, he hoped he lived to see it, they'd be known as good men, too.

Without thinking, as if it were routine, the African American man grinned and sat up, the tattoos on his bicep rippling. "You know that's right."

Runner tensed and on his white knuckles the letters A-C-A-B stood out in relief. "Don't be the only one on enemy turf, McChicken, the Kid don't scare that easy, does he?" The look in Runner's eyes was oddly compassionate, and Kid was sure the man KNEW. But then, this was Runner. He knew everything, it seemed.

"Tell me, Kid, what have you heard about me? Don't be afraid to speak. You're the only one around here who's throat hasn't been slit at least once, and don't think I didn't see you staring. Have you heard the story? Have you been told of how I drove a man mad with a look? How the last man who crossed me ended up worst than your stepfather, dying at his own hands after five minutes alone with me?" Runner cut himself off with a throaty chuckle of dry amusement.

The Kid gulped as the man' s keen eyes turned on him, scanning him over the large, sharp nose. He knew that if he lied, Runner could tell. Runner could always tell.

"They say the Aryan Brotherhood tried to recruit you and that you were there when the leader lost his mind. They say you did it, and you didn't even touch him. They say you know things you shouldn't and you started your own gang from the ground up when one of the crazy guy's men tried to..." Kid felt himself start to ramble, forcing himself to meet Runner's dark hazel eyes.

"Yeah, whatever." Runner interrupted. "I wanted to know what you thought."

"I think that you're a good guy and you don't belong in a place like this." Kid didn't know where it came from, but he suddenly realized he believed it. The man was dangerous, but good.

Runner suddenly looked furious, his eyes narrowing and his fists clenching as he tensed, half-rising. "And what the hell would you know about me and what I've done?"

Kid stood, "I know that I'm alive. I know that feet no longer trip me whenever I pass, that my food doesn't disappear off my plate. I know that I'm stuck in this hole with you and yet, somehow I'm the freest I've ever been. I know my life is your forfeit. And I know the cops won't hear a word about Puppet's death. And I know you know who did it. You know everything around here. And you know what? I don't fucking care, man. You're a goddamn Robin Hood and you don't even see it."

Kid left, turning his back deliberately on Runner as if to prove his point. Runner was a good man who would never attack when someone's back was turned.

Jackal watched his friend's careful movements, analyzing him. "He was right, you know, you are a good man."

Runner snorted in derision.


	5. Chapter 4

Lompoc Federal Penitentiary

Juliet Margaret O'Hara sighed as they passed the third checkpoint and were finally waved onwards. The guard towers of Lompoc Federal Penitentiary stood out in stark contrast against the vivid blue sky, the grey concrete austere and uninviting.

She fingered her gun, eyes narrowed, suddenly very aware of the fact that she was entering a prison full of men who were convicted of major crimes. Shivering, she remembered some of the men she had put there, rapists and murderers, thieves and psychopaths. The things she'd seen...

...dark brown blood dried in a crusty, matted parody of a halo around the woman's head, the corpse's face deceivingly peaceful, blue-tinged lips speckled with blood turned up in a smile...

In the front seat of the car, Lassiter turned to look at her, face grim. A flash of understanding flooded his eyes.

"Just think about the fact that there's no way they can escape and hurt other people, and not the fact that you just wish they would try something so you can put a bullet in their head, O'Hara. It always helps me to think about the fact that I'm not like them. I don't murder people in cold blood... However, I wouldn't be against blowing out someone's kneecaps if they tried anything. Let's see them try..."

"Carlton!" What once would have been an exclamation of shock and horror was now simply a cold reprimand.

"O Hara."

"Now that we are introduced, you can get out of the car." The pleasant voice issued forth from beside them.

The two detectives jumped at the voice from the window, O'Hara drawing her piece in an instant.

Lassiter turned around to face the man, who was still talking. His red hair, peppered with grays, glinted in the bright sunlight. He was short, but thin, lean, and worn, his face prematurely weathered by age and experience. His thin nose had the crooked look of one that's been broken before and hasn't set right.

At the sight of the weapon, he clucked his tongue in disapproval, his head motioning back to the guard towers. In the distance, a flash of metal spoke of a gun. "Bad idea, honey. That's a good way to get yourself killed."

... A gun to her head, the weapon cold and hard as she fought her instinct to struggle, her eyes wide with fear, knowing that she should have waited for backup, that this recklessness was going to get her killed...

She lowered the weapon.

"Nice car, by the way." An appreciative glance and a wry raised brow was sent in the gleaming vehicles direction.

"Welcome to my home, the place where men, once behind the walls, almost never come out. I'm sure you'll appreciate it. Budget's low though, so I could only splurge for one welcome mat. It reads 'Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here'. Fitting, right?" He motioned now towards the windowless high concrete walls.

"My mother always said the welcome mat ought to match the paint job. I'm not sure this is what she had in mind, though," he speculated.

"Your crime scene is in cell block C. Man's name was Roger Morris. Known round here as Puppet. You ll get used to the names. They're a good way to tell a man's character." A glint of something hard flashed in the merry man's eye than disappeared.

"So, Detective O'Hara-" he nodded at Juliet "-Detective Lassiter."

O'Hara smiled as Carlton flipped back the side of his jacket to display his gun and his badge. "That would be Head Detective Carlton Lassiter to you."

The man just smiled mockingly. "I work with murderers and psychopaths, too. It's hard to intimidate me, Head-" he emphasized the word in clearly mocking tones, almost eliciting a growl from the irate Head Detective. "-Detective Lassiter."

Lassiter looked as though he was about to throw down a gauntlet and call for a showdown, so O'Hara, used to her partner's temper, just sighed.

"I don't care who you are, just take us to our crime scene."

The man nodded at the beautiful blond detective, eyes running over her figure. Working at a man's prison, he didn't often get such incredible views, and he was quite obviously appreciating the opportunity. "As you wish."

It was odd, Warden Raybourne thought, but these two seemed oddly familiar, as though he'd heard their names before somewhere.

Glaring at the forward man, O'Hara deliberately opened her car door, forcing him back, and took full advantage of her heels.

"So," Carlton Lassiter began, trying to end the Princess Bride moment before he gagged or began a battle to the pain, whichever came first. "You were kind of vague in the report. Well, actually I'd call it downright deflective. What really went down here?" He glanced around at the open landscape as he spoke, noting the concrete walls and the barbed wire fences.

The man who ran the prison, (Who's name, Carlton realized with surprise, he had still not gotten) began a rundown of the murder.

"We weren't vague on purpose, but we really didn't know much. This guy, the vic, he was known as a talker. A few weeks back one of the gang leaders brought in a tip that Puppet was going to die, but I didn't believe him. I should have. He may be a gang leader, may even be the most dangerous man in here, but he's also the guy I'd trust the most. He isn't the type to get mixed up in this stuff. He only does what he does out of necessity, got a Robin Hood complex if you ask me. Still, I wouldn't cross him. That man plays the game well. Hell of a guy. In any other situation we d probably be friends..." The red-head's eyes were narrowed, gauging their reactions.

Lassiter was the first to speak as he, too, pulled his tall frame from the car, wincing a little as he stretched to his full height.

"Wait a second," Carlton interrupted. "When you're done bragging about your buddy will you give me his name?"

The hesitation was so brief, he barely caught it.

Warden felt again that odd tingle of familiarity. There was something he needed to know about these two...

"What for? He's innocent."

Carlton ground his teeth as O'Hara watched on in amusement. "None of the men in here are innocent, Mr.-"

"Raybourne," The warden filled in, holding out a calloused, scarred hand. The detectives ignored it.

"-and if he knew of a murder beforehand and warned you, which I might mention, you didn't do anything about although if you had, Puppet might still be alive and I wouldn't have had to waste a four hour drive, then he is a suspect!" Carlton finished with a hiss, his shoulders knotted in frustration. He may have towered over Raybourne, but the small man had quite a presence.

"Let me make myself perfectly clear, Detective, I run a prison full of hardened criminals, psychopaths and sociopaths. You don't want to drop the damn soap here, and you don't want to f&ck with the man who practically runs the damn prison, and I'm not talking about me, so you should get that damn chip off your shoulder before you go inside, because I can't promise what will happen otherwise." Raybourne's tone was light, but his words were clear.

O'Hara placed her hand on Lassiter's arm and stepped in front of him, glad that she was wearing heels. "Look, Warden, if he's innocent, then he shouldn't have anything to worry about, so let us run our investigation our way, understood? Oh, and get in our way again, and Carlton will arrest you for obstruction of justice. He hasn't had a chance to use his handcuffs yet once today and its making him a little out of sorts. Resist arrest, and he'll use his gun, and he won't be gentle, because I know him and he would resent your death for causing him unnecessary paperwork, and then I'll have to deal with the fallout that makes him a pain in the ass all day and we'll probably loose a couple more Rookies that we can't afford to loose to Carlton's temper, all triggered by you forcing him to kill you. Understood?" She snapped, tired of the wordplay.

Mr. It Takes A Lot To Intimidate Me Cause I Hang With Murderers looked whiter than Carlton's pristine white button down shirt, and that takes effort. Runner's file, he realized. He knew their names from Runner's file.

Still, there was something calculating in his eyes that O'Hara didn't like.

Raybourne needed to see that file now.

"They call him Runner, okay? I'll pull his real name from the files, but I warned you, it's your funeral if you mess with him. The last guy who came after one of his men has yet to string a full sentence together. He was moved to a psychiatric facility in a permanent relocation."

And whatever these two had to do with Runner, Raybourne thought, it was going to end badly. After all, outside of Jackal, Raybourne was the closest thing Runner had to a friend here. That is, an enemy.

Carlton smiled. This Runner sounds like he'd be fun to break. Juliet- Maggie, Carlton corrected himself, knowing she'd always be Juliet to him- frowned, knowing that Carlton was probably looking forward to this a little to much to be considered sane, he knew. Whatever. Let her doubt his sanity. They passed him on the psych eval. Of course, he had threatened to blow out the man's kneecaps if he did otherwise (Lassiter hated psychologists and all their head-stuff), but Carlton was positive the man had been planning on clearing him for duty all along, just needed a little push in the right direction...

Carlton remained smiling at the thoughts and memories in his head. Off to the crime scene then. He pretended not to notice the look Juliet shot him before she turned towards Raybourne.

Juliet sent a glare at Raybourne and motioned with her hand for him to lead the way. He glanced- nervously, she wondered- at Lassie's hand, dangerously close to the gun, and stepped forward.

"This oughtta be fun to watch." Maggie swore she heard Raybourne mutter.

Whatever was going on was going to push the already volatile atmosphere of Lompoc into insanity. Hopefully the things that should remain hidden wouldn't be unearthed.

Neither Runner nor Raybourne needed anyone digging up the past. With a furtive glance at the open expanse of the Yard, lit even in the day by enormous floodlights, Raybourne swallowed hard, no digging literal or metaphorical.

When they reached cell block C and stepped inside, Juliet had to blink in the harsh white glare of the fluorescent lights after the midday sun. She had squinted as they made their way through the empty recreation area, the prisoners were all locked in their cells at the moment, she had realized with a sigh of relief.

Raybourne smiled genuinely, sharp teeth flashing, at her when he heard the noise, his eyebrows scrunching down and pulling at his red hair. She realized the man was younger than he first appeared, probably in his early forties. He led them to a door.

"You all go down this hallway, my men are inside, guarding the crime scene. I'll be back once I talk to the Jackal, get you two an Interview with Runner, if I can."

And warn them not to participate. If he could. This would not end well for any parties.

Carlton sent him a surprised look, "Since when do we have to ask a suspect if he can be interrogated?" The white lights cast deep shadows on his hard features, making the scruff on his jaw and the deep shadows beneath his eyes more pronounced.

"Since you entered my prison. You may not have to stay here, but it's only politics that make these men respect me and if you try to force Runner in here, which I doubt will work in the first place, you'll end up with a war on your hands. These men have ways of getting things done, so if I have to ask so that I can got to bed a little more certain that I'll wake up, then I'll damn well do it." Raybourne's spine straightened and the air seemed to crackle around him as he seethed.

With that outburst, the enigma that was Raybourne walked off to 'ask his question'.

The two detectives exchanged looks, then headed towards the crime scene, footsteps echoing on the concrete floors in the eerily empty room.

Outside the cell, three guards stood in crisp uniforms, their eyes alert and unblinking. One approached the two detectives. "I'm going to need some I.D..." the question was becoming increasingly familiar, Carlton mused with a sigh.

When the door opened, the metal bars clanging against the concrete, Juliet's eyebrows raised slightly and Carlton's mouth fell open a bit. Just a bit however. They were homicide detectives, experienced in all manners of death, so it didn't look good to seem surprised.

Lompoc Federal Penitentiary, two hours later

"Mr. Raybourne, I don't give a damn about confidential or not and whether this Runner guy wants visitors, I want to know why we got dragged out to this godforsaken place to deal with an apparent suicide!"

Carlton Lassiter, Head Detective for the SBPD was furious. Beyond furious, in fact. He drove all the way out here, paid for gas, ignored the whistles and crude comments his partner, or, more appropriately, her backside, received, got mud on his pristine car, and had his five hundred dollar Italian leather shoes ruined by a maximum security prison guard who couldn't hold his breakfast at the sight of a corpse.

"I told you! I called you out here because Runner told me this was going to happen, and if he doesn't want to deal with you, that's not his fault." A wry expression crossed Raybourne's flushed features."Most of the guys in here aren't exactly on first name terms with the cops..." He unconsciously fingered his own weapon, which Juliet just now noticed rested comfortably on his hip.

"Just get me the damn interview!"

Juliet watched as her partner slammed his fist into the aluminum desk that was bolted into the concrete floor. Noticing that it was as Spartan as the dead man's cell, she frowned. What a terrible place to live. The scum deserved it.

"I can't get you a direct interview with the man if he doesn't want to cooperate, but you might 'stumble upon' him if you visit the work out room. Just don't let Jackal catch sight of you. He's Runner's right hand man and has a tendency to be overprotective... You know, for the first three months they spent here, Runner and Jackal never said a single word to another prisoner. That's how Runner got his name, when he saw trouble coming, he just kept on running. It was only after The Incident that his name got a new meaning. When you see Runner coming, you sure as hell better keep running. The Incident was a big event around here. You'll probably hear about it from some of the inmates. It wasn't Runner's fault of course, and I pity the poor man. He hasn't had a single visitor since he was admitted and rumor has it that neither Runner nor Jackal have had a single letter or any contact at all with the real world outside. I can't imagine spending six years of my..."

Juliet interrupted his monologue finally, realizing that they wouldn't get any more information on the mysterious gang lord until they 'stumbled upon' him. She made a sour face, knowing she would prefer to stop dancing around and pull out her gun and demand answers. They'd already been there for almost three hours and hadn't interviewed a single suspect. Her fingers were itching to shoot somebody, like a smoker urged for a cigarette.

"Just show us to the gym and we'll handle it from there..." She would make the bastards sweat.

"They want an interview."

"They can go screw themselves," Jackal hissed. "And it's an interrogation."

A ghost of a smile passed over Runner's face as he spoke up. "They have no idea what the hell an interrogation is." He reached forward with a grin and pulled his hand away fro Jackal's ear to reveal a shiv. Grim faced now, he began to clean out the underneath of his fingernails, brown flakes of dried blood emerging. "They have no idea what, who, they're dealing with. I'm looking forward to this."

A ghostly grin split his face into an eerie mask.

"Six years, eleven months, and twenty-two days. Our time is almost up. I need to make a phone call."


	6. Chapter 5

Runner smiled, the cellphone pressed to his cheek.

"So, Charlie, We gonna get the gang together? It's been a month since my last contract and I've been getting bored."

The reply made Runner's grin widen.

"Send Jude over to play lawyer."

The guard tapped Runner on the shoulder to signal five minutes and Runner turned, sending the man an icy glare.

The man scuttled away like a kicked puppy.

"Of course I passed my LSAT!" Runner hissed into the phone. "When is the last time I failed something?"

The acerbic reply made Runner wince good-naturedly.

"I thought we promised never to mention my fourth trip to Mexico. I never should have taken the first three yet alone took the contract for the fourth!"

The room was silent as Runner listened to the man on the other end of the line.

"Yep. And there is no way you're bringing the issue at the Kazakhstan border up, a deal is a deal. Hey, do you think we can bring Chance in on this one? I don't think the transport for prisoner exchange excuse is going to work again, especially not while I'm under investigation."

Runner smirked as the chatter of angry exclamations echoed from the device as he pulled the phone away from his ear. When the noise died down, he finished the call.

"It's just a murder rap, dude, nothing to worry about. And don't try to feed me that zen crap, I know you're worrying. Make sure to get Jude, Hanson, Cafri, DiNozzo, and the others in on this one. It's a big case, and my keepers already approved the contract. Call you later. I have to go interrogate some coppers- I mean, be interrogated by some coppers."

He hung up without a goodbye, imagining Crews' face. He'd just have to call Charlie back later.

Runner sauntered back to his cell with a grin. The Hermanos were back.

* * *

><p>Lompoc Federal Penitentiary<p>

Juliet followed Lassiter down the hallway, wincing at the noise level as every sound echoed into an ear-splitting cacophony.

The blank washed out white walls seemed to press in on her in the growing noise, added to by the piercing whistles of the men behind the barred doorways on either side of her, their eyes watching her every movement, scarred faces registering her holstered weapon. The khaki-colored uniform of the guard escorting them contrasted greatly with the orange jumpsuits of the inmates and the blue jump suit of the janitor with his mop who was washing down the floor up ahead. Juliet frowned, the puddle looked...

It was blood she realized with a start, her mouth suddenly feeling dry.

Hands clanged against bars.

Deep, gravelly voices echoed.

A tattooed face leered at her, teeth bared.

Dark hostile eyes followed her movements, running up and down her body.

She suddenly became very much aware of the fact that she was a woman in a man's prison. It's not like she was a particularly helpless woman either, but she could practically smell the testosterone in the air.

In the same fashion they continued their solemn march past face after face of the kind of men she despised, detested. Killers. Psychopaths. Thieves.

Finally they reached a large set of double doors, on either side of which stood heavily armed guards at attention. Inside, Juliet knew, was the gym in which lower priority inmates could spend their time. She realized that her hands were sweating at the thought of those men outside of their cells, and she clumsily smoothed her skirt with her shaking fingers, wishing she had chosen a less feminine suit...

She jumped when Lassiter placed a hand on her shoulder to steer her towards the slowly opening doors then scowled at herself, angry that she was allowing the volatile atmosphere to get to her.

Without meeting Lassiter's eyes, she pushed on ahead of him, into the gym.

Inside the room there were no windows, everything instead bathed in the yellow-hued brightness of the artificial lights that covered the ceiling. Several inmates occupied the large room, each orange jumpsuit accompanied by two guards.

Some prisoners, reeking of sweat, were lifting weights to the left and others were running on treadmills or stretching on the mats.

As the guard led them in the other direction, Juliet's eyes were drawn to the remaining inmates, those they were heading towards. There were three of them. One was a large African American man, his jumpsuit pulled down to show his wife beater underneath and his well defined shoulder muscles, covered with the occasional tattoo or scar, slick with sweat. He was facing away from them, Working out his fists on a bulky punching bag that had seen better days, his forceful punches swinging the bag back and forth in front of him.

The other two men were in the boxing ring sparring without face gear or gloves. Their moves were clean and swift, a practiced, deadly sort of dance with a clear leader. The shorter man worked the larger man with ease, his grace belied by the loud smack of each blow he dealt. Pinning and releasing. Pinning and releasing. Like a cat playing with a mouse, The small man played with the other man, his posture relaxed, bored. Each move was anticipated. Each blow precise. When, for a moment, he faced her, beneath the tattoos gracing his features, Juliet swore the man's eyes were closed. Possible or not.

Juliet winced in sympathy as the shorter man with the slim build took out his opponent with a classic boxing strike followed by a strange mixed martial arts move that left his larger opponent groaning on his back.

No one turned as the groans proclaimed the match's end. No one reacted to the unexpected prowess of the smaller fighter.

The victor dusted off his hands and leaned casually against the ropes, facing away from the two detectives. Juliet frowned. There was something oddly familiar about the way the man held himself.

"Maggie." She jumped, almost turning to Carlton.

But the voice wasn't his, but someone equally familiar, someone from a different time.

"Shawn?" She hated the way her voice slipped up an octave. Hated how it seemed all of the eyes in the room were on her except His.

The man still didn't turn around, his back stiff and fists still clenched. "I figured I'd be seeing you eventually, whether you were granted an interview or not."

He fell silent as Carlton and Juliet stared at his back in befuddled shock. Then, he turned around.

After six years of imagining this confrontation, there were dozens of things Juliet could have said at that moment but at the time, all that came out of her mouth was "You have a pineapple tattooed on your face?"

The man smirked, offering no retort, "Lassiter." He nodded at the Head Detective.

"Maggie."

His face was hard as stone. Juliet took in the various scars crisscrossing his face and neck and the pineapple labeled 'Hermanos' on his cheek, the bottom almost hidden by his beard.

For a moment while she studied the changes in him she didn't realize the significance of his words, she missed for a moment his use of her new name. The name she took because her old one made her think of Him. Now 'Maggie' sounded wrong, too. Foreign and dirty coming from those lips.

"How...?" She began, but Shawn cut her off.

"You may not have kept tabs on me, you might not even have posted bail, attended my trial or even visited, you may even deserve the title for most inventive break-up excuse ever, but that does not mean I'm the same. Did you really think I wouldn't keep tabs on you? I don't abandon people." He finished pointedly, his eyes on Lassiter, avoiding Juliet's face. "So," he began again in a falsely chipper tone, " I believe you had some questions, Detectives?"

His eyes bored into Carlton.

He kept grinning like a predator having sighted it's prey.

Carlton twitched.

"No," the voice came from behind Lassiter. "I believe they didn't." Gus said, running a calloused hand over his bald head, muscles still tense and prominent from his time at the punching bag.

Seeing Gus, Juliet took an involuntary step back. She had never before realized how tall the kind-hearted pharmaceutical salesman was. Even Lassiter seemed surprised at his appearance.

Shawn just smiled, his raised eyebrows wrinkling his forehead around the puckered slash that spread downwards, slanting across the bridge of his nose. A black eye seemed suddenly very prominent in a mischievous, impish sort of way that was altogether uncomfortably familiar.

"Ah, Jackal, let the uniforms talk. I can deal with this one. They're the ones who said they needed to interview Runner. Well, here he is." He turned away from Gus to face Lassiter.

"So, Lassie-face, what's been eating you. it's been five whole minutes and you have yet to threaten to shoot me, duct tape my mouth shut, or handcuff my hands behind my back. Of course, now that you've already had the pleasure once of putting me in handcuffs, maybe you're satisfied...? Six years ago between you and Detective O'Hara I can honestly say that you were not the one I imagined putting me in handcuffs, but I was wrong then. A lot of things have changed. I'm one of them... So Lassie, you still into bondage?"

The guard sent the Detective a skeptical glance laced with fear and Lassiter glowered.


	7. Chapter 6

**SBPD Station...**

_ At Lompoc Federal Penitentiary potential murder vic called in. May or may not be the first. Suspected homicide, requires outside assistance._

Staring at it, Chief Vick couldn't help but think it wasn't a hell of a lot to go on. It wasn't even a file, which she didn't mind much. Too many more files and they'd run out of room under cold cases in the record room. Looking at the short email she found she still felt pissed about it.

"Requires outside assistance." Hell, it was practically an order. She scowled to herself as she brushed sweaty blond hair away from where it was plastered on her forehead. Despite the efforts of the overtaxed AC system, as testified to by the constant loud thrumming and rattling, the California heat had filled the station, making the already stressed atmosphere worse. Downstairs two petty thieves in holding had to be released for treatment to deal with heat stroke. Their lawyers were threatening to file charges against the SBPD for improper treatment.

Standing abruptly and abandoning her was-once-comfortable office chair, Karen Vick strode over to the side of her office where wall windows gave her a clear view of the entire station- and them a good view of her, their 'fearless leader'- and snapped the blinds closed. The sudden darkness, disturbed only by the soft glow of the computer screen, was a relief. Ignoring the computer and the teeter stacks of yellow casefile folders and reports awaiting her attention, she sighed and leaned against the wall, sagging against its support.

When did everything go wrong? She wondered.

Her mind supplied an answer in the form of a long avoided memory and she allowed herself to slide down the plaster walls, sinking to the floor. If only she hadn't played along with Spencer. If only she had been more careful. If only she had stopped the news from leaking to the press when it did. If only she had been less focused on her job and how He helped her, she might still have her family, have her daughter.

She closed her eyes, a disgusted look taking over her features.

If only's were useless. She learned that six years ago.

Standing up, she stepped over to the light switch to turn it on, fully aware of her surroundings even in the dark. After all, she spent half her life cooped up in this office, more now than ever. She had often fallen asleep at that very desk, so focused on the screen before her that she could pretend she didn't see her whole life in the aftermath of the Incident, as it all fell down, the job had become her life.

Easing her protesting body back into the desk chair, the lights now back on and shades open as though nothing had ever happened, the Chief settled back to work. Glancing at the screen, she froze as she saw a new line of text.

_ At Lompoc Federal Penitentiary potential murder vic called in. May or may not be the first. Suspected homicide, requires outside assistance._

**_They were warned._**

She blinked and stared at the screen, certain that had not been there before and praying her eyes weren't playing tricks on her. She was so absorbed in the strange appearance that she jumped when a timid knock sounded at her door. With a breath to calm herself she called out for the officer outside to enter.

"Hello, Chief."

"Captain McNab. Did something happen with any of the cases in organized crime?"

The large Captain rubbed a calloused hand over the stubble on his jaw, evidence that, combined with the dark circles under his eyes, spoke of sleepless nights trying to control criminal activity in Santa Barbara. Sleepless nights had become something everyone in the SBPD understood. While crime flourished, so did coffee houses all over the city.

"No, Chief. Actually, I was planning on visiting you sometime or another to request leave to visit Francie and the baby when this undercover job is over but that isn't what I came for right now."

McNab threw her a weak smile that she recognized. He was probably too worn down from continuously bolstering the spirits of all of SBPD's finest to offer her any better. She didn't blame him. He was like an overly-eager puppy that had been kicked too many times but he just kept getting back up. It's how he rose in the ranks so quickly to make it to Captain of Organized Crime. He put up with everything everyone threw at him and responded with a smile and a "yes, sir." A lot of it probably came from putting up with Lassiter, who was never easy to get along with, especially after It happened. Still, the promotion had been good for him in many ways, too. It took more backbone to take what he took when he didn't have to than it took to give 'em hell back.

"This was sitting on my desk in my office, Chief." He held out a plain brown box.

"No one saw anyone enter but there was a typed note on my desk instructing me to give it to you. I had one of my men check it, even though there's little chance someone could smuggle a bomb into the station. They said it appeared to be a normal package," He paused, then added, "not that packages normally appear out of thin air." He handed it over.

Chief Vick took the package tentatively, a puzzled frown on her face and her eyebrows drawn together as her fingers ran over the smooth brown cardboard.

"Would that be all, McNab?" Her voice came out sharper than she'd intended. For some reason she wanted to open the box alone. It felt personal somehow.

The man just smiled and nodded, stepping out of the office with a straight back and a confident step. She turned back to the package and, unconsciously hesitating, glanced back at the strange line of writing still on her desktop. With her eyes narrowed determinedly and her curiosity spiked at how someone got this through security, she pulled the top of the box open...

And gasped, feeling the blood drain from her face as she looked at what was inside, something she hadn't seen in six years. Memories flooded her mind.

_Shawn Spencer, fake psychic detective extraordinaire, smiled winningly at Chief Vick while distractedly playing with the glass fish figure she kept on her desk. Inside, she groaned, well aware that a bright grin like that always promised trouble when Shawn was involved._

_"Mr. Spencer, I'll have you know, you are not officially assigned to this case..."_

_Ignoring her remark, he continued to grin inanely, waiting for her to break down and let him on. As he did, he began tossing the fish in the air._

_She winced in anticipation of the moment it would hit the floor. It didn't._

_Instead Shawn calmly began to speak, explaining his reasons for being on the case as he snatched her letter-opener now. One of his main reasons appeared to be his "awesomely incredible hair."_

_He continued to grin infuriatingly at her as he tossed both items in the air, juggling them with surprising dexterity as he elaborated on his hair and his psychic mojo skills. Without missing a beat, he took her coffee mug next, then as she watched with a morbid curiosity normally reserved for idiots who jumped out of planes without parachutes, he snagged her scissors. Soon other items joined the mix until half of her desk was whirling mesmerizingly in the air just beyond her reach._

_He continued to prattle on and she waited for the crash that didn't come, so focused that she didn't notice McNab come in. She jumped and Spencer stopped, catching the items raining down around him in his arms and, once, on his head. She stared as he dumped the load on her desk. McNab stared, too. Spencer shrugged self-consciously. "Well," he began as way of explanation. "I was dating this hot lion-tamer chick in Argentina..."_

_The conversation continued and after Spencer left, the Chief straightened out her stuff. It wasn't until that night that she noticed the fish was gone, but she never had the chance to talk to him about it before It happened, and thoughts of the fish were long forgotten._

With an awed sort of trepidation, Chief Vick lifted the fish out of the box. There was a green post it note attached to the bottom. She would recognize that handwriting anywhere, even after all these years.

_Good luck with your retirement. Gus convinced me a pineapple wasn't the appropriate gift for the one person with the guts to attend the trial, so I had this arranged... Take a deep breath and don't worry, the fish is fine. Dropping it won't shatter it, and you can glue that fin back on with the superglue Lassie never bothered to get rid of. Third drawer down._

Her eyes grew wide. She hadn't told anyone but Carlton about her retirement plans yet.

With a start she realized that in her shock she had dropped the fish. She reached down to pick it up and stepped on something. She picked it up. It was the fin.


	8. Chapter 7

"Gus?" Juliet nervously asked, already aware that it was him. He ignored her, easily jumping over the ropes and into the boxing ring.

"Nice throw, Runner." The two men fist bumped, still acting as though the two detectives weren't even there.

"Wasn't it a totally Kurt McKinney, No Retreat, No Surrender move?"

"Dude, no way are you Kurt McKinney, that would make me J.W. Fails!"

"Don't be the one to bring a knife to a gun fight, J.W. Fails was awesome! Remember that breakdancing scene?"

"Seriously? That had to be the worst movie of the eighties!"

"Fine, then I am totally Rambo!"

"Runner, do you seriously think I could pull off a little Asian old man addicted to soap operas?"

"You are addicted to soap operas, remember, you cried when Inaki died on An Numbers Day More!"

"It's En Nombre del Amor, Runner, and I wasn't the one who cried! I don't even know enough Spanish to watch telenovelas!"

"Do too!"

"Do not!"

"Do too!"

"Do not!"

"Do not!"

"Do too... Wait, that is so not fair!"

Shawn grinned and stuck his tongue out at Gus. Juliet swore she could see the glint of a tongue piercing.

Without warning, the two men jumped at each other. Gus throwing a right hook that Shawn easily dodged and followed with a high kick Juliet recognized from The Karate Kid. Gus grunted as it hit him in the ribs and stumbled back a step. Lassiter rushed forward to seperate the two before he noticed that both men were laughing as they exchanged blows.

"Shawn!" Juliet called out.

Taking advantage of Shawn's distraction, Gus managed to land a glancing blow on Shawn's temple. Shawn acted as though he didn't even feel it.

"Whoa, Runner, you okay?" Gus asked, clearly surprised he'd managed to hit his friend.

"Of course, Jackal," Shawn waved Gus off. "I've been stabbed, shot, strangled, beaten half to death with a metal pipe... I'm fine. Besides, you hit like a girl."

The prisoner Shawn had been sparring with earlier walked back over, a fresh bruise covering the whole left side of his face. He listened to the two men with a wry expression on his face. "Runner only says that cause he's the only one in this whole damn place who can get away with it." He said to no one in particular. "Runner's the only one Jackal can fight anymore without pulling his punches. Runner's to much like a ghost. One second his fist is breaking your nose and the next he's on the other side of the room, grinning like an idiot and requesting you call him by Doctor, 'cause why the hell else would he take the time to get a degree but for the title? It's where the guy's name comes from. Originally he was called Runner 'cause he spent all his time studying or at the bags with Jackal and didn't say nothing to no one. We all thought he didn't have the balls to do nothin'. We called him Runner 'cause he stayed out of trouble till the incident a little over five years back. After that he's been Runner cause when you see him coming, you sure as hell better pick up your feet and start running." the man suddenly turned to face the two detectives, who realized how silent it had become while everyone listened to his words. "If you're smart, you should get the hell outta dodge and come up with whatever you need without Runner's help. He's unreliable and a bad man to bet on. Watch yourself around here, 'cause everyone either loves that man or hates him. It's better to choose your fights and stay away from prison politics. 'Cause politics round here are murder." With that, the man strolled away, followed closely by his heavily armed guard, who nudged the man with the front of his weapon.

"Well," Shawn's voice from behind her made Juliet jump. "About those questions..."

In an Interrogation Room

Shawn was seated at a table, both feet propped up in front of him on the table's metal surface. The flourescent lighting threw the scars and tattoos that marred his once familiar features into relief. The shadows filled the hollows of his eyes. From behind the onw way glass, Lassiter tried to stop the shiver as the pits of darkness followed his movement as though Spencer- Runner, he corrected himself- could see him. The rest of the man was unnaturally still, in a way that surprised and bothered Lassiter. With a deep breath to calm himself, he marched out of the observation room, slamming the door, and stormed into interrogation.

"Lassie." The man didn't turn to see him enter, just spoke his name with such a knowing air that Lassiter found himself gritting his teeth.

"What do you know about Roger Morris?"

"Puppet? Probable suicide vic? Five feet, eight inches. One hundred and seventy pounds. A twenty-five to lifer. Wanted out on parole. Had a bit of a thing for men. No gang activity. Here after murdering his wife in '98. He caught her with the mailman, figures." Shawn laughed with no real amusement in his eyes. "He wasn't really mad at the wife though, but the mailman. Apparently they'd had a bit of a thing... Stabbed the guy seven times. Puppet didn't belong here. He couldn't deal with it, wanted out. Shoulda gotten parole soon. Good thing, too. I couldn't stand him. He had terrible hair..."

"You realize you just gave us motive for a murder you seem to know too much about?"

"Oh! so now you admit it's a murder!" Shawn grinned ferally and Lassiter had the sudden feeling that he wasn't the one running this interrogation- scratch that, 'interview'. "I have an alibi, and none of my men would have touched him. I don't allow them to off people. Too many ramifications."

"Tell me who really did it and I might believe you."

"It was Colonel Mustard. In the Library. With a candlestick." A smile played at the corners of the man's mouth but his eyes remained cold, distant.

"Shut up and tell us the truth!"

"You can't handle the truth!" The man laughed, a short, harsh bark of laughter that echoed behind the cold walls that hemmed them in. "I've always wanted to say that. Quick question: Which do you want me to do, shut up or tell you the truth? Anyways, it's gotta be Colonel Mustard cause this is a man's prison if you haven't noticed, so unless Ms. Scarlett is hiding something behind that hideous feather boa she's wrapped in..."

"You know what? I think I'll just have this ruled a suicide so I won't have to put up with you..."

Shawn laughed, his eyes widening. "I overestimated you! I gave you all the clues! A warning, several possible motives, and still you think it's a suicide! Tell me then, Lassie-face, if I told you he was getting out on parole soon, then why would he kill himself?"

Lassiter stared, suddenly aware that Shawn had already given him enough reason for the death to be suspicious and he hadn't even noticed.

He reached for his notepad and pencil to take notes, frowning when he couldn't find it in eithor of his suit pockets. Realizing he'd have to do without, he continued. "Just tell me what you know, Spencer."

Shawn smiled, victorious. He rattled his cuffs. "These come off first and I get to see the scene. Gus's records of ever being here will be expunged when he gets out on parole, which I expect to happen sooner rather than later."

Lassiter stared in astonishment at Shawn, who just smiled, reached inside his jumpsuit and pulled out a legal pad and a pencil. Lassiter's legal pad and pencil.

Shawn slid it over to him.

"There's a list of those things I'll receive in return for my full cooperation. At the bottom is Chief Vick's current cell phone number. You'll need this..." Shawn's grin grew wider as, hands still cuffed together, he tosed Lassiter his cell phone. Lassiter gaped.

"Oh, and Lassie, while you're at it, will you please be a dear and add a pineapple smoothie to my list of demands?And possibly some jerk chicken? Jackal will kill me if I had a chance to get some and didn't, and then all of our co-operationishness will go down the drain..."

Runner held the cellphone to his ear with one hand, careful to tilt his body so that the phone was angled away from the security cameras.

"Is everything arranged?"

He nodded then, pleased with the reply. A dark sort of anticipation evident in the tight set of his jaw and the strong posture of his shoulders.

"Good, I've been delaying the coppers here with their murder investigation. The plan's going well. In a few days, we can head out and I'll have the situation diffused here. Well, both the situations." His brows pulled down thoughtfully as he frowned grimly.

"No, I'm not too attached! I haven't seen them in over six years. I'll be fine. See you all soon."

Shawn snapped the phone closed with a sense of finality, a sigh weighing heavily on his lips and his shoulders pulled tense. Living the way he did was difficult already. The reappearance of a could-have-been-fiance and an overly-curious/violent-Head-Detective-Almost-Chief was not helping matters. 


	9. Chapter 8

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

**just a little update because my plot bunny here is feeling neglected... By the way, this is a crossover with NCIS, Life, 21 Jump Street the tv series, Jude, and White Collar.**

* * *

><p><strong>(Lassie and Jules start to wonder just how well they know Shawn... and you discover what Shawn resorts to when he's REALLY REALLY REALLY bored. I couldn't help but make Shawn awesome-er. I might edit this later to make it realistic, but if you think about it, with his memory, all Shawn has to do really is flip through textbooks glancing at pages.)<strong>

* * *

><p>"Hello, you've reached Very Special Agent..." The man's voice was cut off.<p>

"DiNozzo, this is Crews."

"Charlie! You know, this reminds me of a film..."

"In the last 20 years, five innocent men, and one very guilty one were sent to prison by a U.S. court for crimes they didn't or allegedly didn't commit. These men met and formed a Crew of justice-seeking vigilantes, one escaped undetected from a maximum security stockade to the underground to gather them, three were acquitted, one was released and proved his innocence, and one was given a work release with the FBI. Today, with their elusive crew still wanted by the government, they survive as soldiers of fortune. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire the Brothers in Orange."

"Charlie, Spencer didn't exactly escape, he went back to prison."

"Temporarily. Anyways, Spencer rang." Crews interrupted again. "I can't get a hang of these new cell technology things, so can you get a hold of Hanson. I heard he's off of his last undercover job by now. DEA's running the kid ragged. I hate cops, and I hate the government."

"Crews, we are cops. And I only spent a few days in lockup. I met Hanson when Russel signed him up to the Navy as a joke." Tony reminded.

"Only cops when we're on the clock, Tony. We're more than brothers in blue, we're brothers in orange. Besides, you don't wear blue. We wear Armani. And, you've been arrested for murder at least twice now. Did you ever wonder if fruit feel?"

"I'm hanging up on you now Charlie."

"Come on, Tony, think about how the pineapple feel. There's no fruit in prison, you know. Poor Spencer. I sent him a pineapple the other day, do you think he got it?"

"Shawn doesn't need help to smuggle things in or out, he runs the place."

The line was silent.

* * *

><p>Lompoc Federal Penitentiary<p>

Carlton Lassiter stormed out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.

"Dammit!" He yelled, slamming his fist into the concrete wall and ignoring the sound of cracking.

"Dammit." He said again, calmer now. "Why do I always let him get into my head?"

"Carlton." He whipped his head around when he hear O'Hara's voice. It was cold, a voice he hadn't heard since just after the trial.

"What the hell was that?" He lurched back, ending up with his back pressed against the cool, hard wall. "You should have pressed him, Head Detective! You just let our lead suspect run you out of an interrogation room!" She spat in his face with venom.

"O'Hara!" He barked the reprimand easily. "I will run my interrogations my way and you will stay the hell out of them!"

O'Hara snarled at him. "You aren't Chief yet!"

"Not for this case, no, but I will expect the new Head Detective to treat her superiors well, O'Hara."

Juliet paled. "Vick is retiring?"

Lassiter found himself smiling vindictively. "Congratulations, you're being promoted."

A voice suddenly interrupted their screaming match.

"Uhm... Detective," The man cleared his throat. "About that file you asked for..." He cleared his throat hesitantly. "It's been expunged."

"What?"

Raybourne's eyes shifted away from the furious man's face. "Well, a better word would be classified," He mumbled. "Some high level shit. Even I can't access it."

Lassiter could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks.

"It's been flagged, too."

Juliet pushed past Lassiter, drawing up to her full height. "Flagged? By what agency?"

Raybourne, unable to meet her livid face, felt his eyes settle on one of her more pleasant features at the moment.

Damn, what a woman.

"Name one. Any one, you got it."

"I need that file," Carlton growled.

Raybourne felt his own temper rise. "Get it your self. Here's my notes. That's the best I can do."

Carlton took the file of notes and waved the man off.

Raybourne turned with a sneer and walked away. Maybe the stuff they found in his notes would make them think twice about messing with Runner.

Carlton looked down at the name on the file and felt his eyebrows draw together. Perplexed at his reaction and unable to hide her curiosity, O'Hara joined him. Neither was sure who said it.

"What the...?"

Lassiter, still looking at the file, stumbled into the room opposite interrogation and felt around for a seat, which he fell into heavily. He wondered if it was a joke then he flipped the file open and, after skimming it briefly, knew that it wasn't. Certain phrases stood out to him.

" Dr. Shawn Spencer...PHD... Doctorates in Psychology, Theoretical Physics, Law, Literature, and... Degree in physical education... extensive language experience... suspected member of vigilante justice group...Spanish... French... Romane... certified cardiologist... perfect score on state BAR exam... forgery... brown hair... hazel eyes... five' ten''... tattoos...Masters Degree in Bar Tending... Paranormal Researcher... Biologist... German... Ambassador... Chemical engineer... Santa Barbara resident... Lompoc Federal Penitentiary... eighty-three jobs suspected total, 68 on record... known gang leader... mixed martial arts... actor...archeologist...suspected pathological liar...Los Hermanos... known associate: Burton "The Jackal" Guster... genius IQ... known to have had advanced weapons training... certified barber... zoologist...thesis... degree in criminal Psychology...highly adept in chemistry...sharpshooter... technology degree... Ancient Egyptian... pickpocketing... hacking..."

Carlton Lassiter stared at the page then blinked, expecting it to disappear.

It had to be real.

If it wasn't Shawn would certainly have added something about his 'awesome hair'/'perfect coif.'

"Are you kidding me? Is this a criminal record or a resume?"

Juliet stared at him, then glanced down at the file, glanced at him, then glared at the file.

"Wow," She said acerbically, "this one must have taken him real effort."

For a second, Carlton pictured it being a joke, but one more look and he was drawn back into the file where even greater surprises lay in waiting.

But, he realized after flipping through a little further. No matter how much information there was, it was still rather limited, with only the barest details about his past and no mention of 'the incident' they kept hearing about.

Well, Carlton resolved, I'm just going to have to dig.

* * *

><p>Chapter End Notes:<br>background note: what happened in Mexico the first time may have, in a round about way, involved Gibbs and a marine buddy of his by the name of Winchester and a dead drug lord. Don't ask Shawn. He wouldn't know. He still can't remember everything that went down. It's one of the few times he's ever drawn a blank.

* * *

><p><strong>Empyrean Sky: <strong>

Thanks! I'm aiming for different. If you look at the summary, you'll see where to look for the prompt this comes from. Really, I started this a LONG time ago and it just deserves a second chance. I hope you enjoy the rest, too!

**Torchil:**

Well, here you are! and hopefully I'll have the next next chapter up next week.

**Psychic101:**

Your screen name alone is inspirational. A good prompt for you (or anyone else who's interested in writing it) is Shawn's guide to being a psychic. I would definitely read it. Thanks for reviewing!

**Dragongirl15:**

Does anyone not like a badass Shawn and Gus? Anyways, more badassery to come. I wondered about the reviews, too. I guess I was wrong. Some people don't like a badass! which, frankly is depressing.

p.s. spoiler for a reader: Not everything is as it appears. Shawn has a secret that has been haunting him for years and he's a bit more like his old self than he might seem. Also, to see the other characters I'm introducing, look up Tom Hanson, Tony DiNozzo, Charlie Crews, Neil Cafri, and the book 'Jude'. I didn't list this as a crossover because you don't NEED to know about them to enjoy the story, but it's more fun if you do.

**Thewarpedmind1:**

It's always nice to be appreciated. He's not just the bad guy though, he's sort of like a twisted Robin Hood.

**YazzyDream:**

More fun is on the way!**  
><strong>


	10. Chapter 9

** This is dedicated to all of you, my wonderful readers, and to Runner. If he'd stop glaring at me and eating that pineapple without sharing, I might be a little sweeter to him... Nah. **

* * *

><p>Lassiter was writing notes on the case when an envelope fell out of his writing tablet. With the florescent light glaring over his head, he stooped over, running his hands over the heavy paper of the envelope. Frowning, he read the inscription and called O'Hara over.<p>

Juliet recognized the writing as Shawn's immediately. With hesitant fingers, she opened the envelope.

_Dear Jules, Maggie, or whatever it is you go by,_

_I never meant to hurt you. All of the pretending to be a psychic and that... I just wanted to help people. And the psychic thing wasn't really my choice. Ask Lassie. It was that or prison. How ironic is it that I ended up here anyway?_

_After you read this, you'll get the call pulling you off this case. Conflict of interest and other bureaucratic bs._

_When you go back, you might want to look back into my case. Maybe check the evidence locker for a certain Nintendo DS. Maybe look inside the battery compartment. Maybe you should feel a little bad about treating me like the plague after I was dragged in. Maybe, you should have come to my trial. Maybe I should wonder why, after you said you loved me, all four hundred and twenty eight letters I wrote you every day in the beginning were returned unopened. Maybe I should wonder why I still love you. Maybe you should wonder why you're still alive after you kept throwing yourself into danger those first few months. Maybe. There's a heck of a lot of maybe's behind these walls. What I want to know is if there are any **Somedays**._

_Signed,_

_Runner_

_p.s. do you know what a guy has to do to get a pineapple around here? Let me clue you in. It involves a very large hairy man with more warts than the sixth grade cafeteria lady._

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><p>Shawn winced as the guards tossed him none to gently into the cell in solitary and eased his pounding head back against the cold concrete wall.<p>

He hated this room and all of the memories it brought.

_... Shawn Spencer stood as near to the guard as he could while they escorted the prisoners to mess. It hadn't taken him long to realize that was the only way he'd survive. Prison hardened faces leered at him through the bars of the cells they passed and Shawn swallowed hard when they passed the strange one, Puppet, and he felt a hand snag in his jumpsuit, pulling him closer to the cell. The man's other hand slid down Shawn's leg. Jerking away, Shawn shivered, feeling violated. There was something wrong with the people here. Wary men with their backs to the walls. He missed Gus. His new cellmate slept with his eyes open and had a disturbing tendency to slink down off the top bunk in the middle of the night and sit on the grimy concrete floor just staring at him. Sailor was a lifer, and you could tell. There was a defeated shuffle to his walk, a weariness in his eyes... Yet, that also made him dangerous. Sailor had no more years to give, nothing to lose. So Shawn hadn't slept. Sitting on the hard cot with his back against the wall and those hard, stormy eyes staring back at him. Instead, he avoided those eyes and watched the man's hands as they expertly shuffled a pack of cards, over and over again..._

Runner frowned and shook himself awake, reminding himself that Sailor was gone. Dead. Puppet was gone. Dead. And he was Runner now. No longer Shawn Spencer.

_... The worst thing was the privacy, or lack thereof. For the first couple of months he felt so wrong, standing to take a piss with Sailor's eyes watching, face split in a gap-toothed grin..._

Shawn- no, Runner- he corrected himself, was alone. No Gus or 'Jackal.' No one. No 'Brothers' in solitary._  
><em>

_ ...He woke up in the prison hospital, arms bound at uncomfortable angles to the too-thin cot. He could hear voices, the voices of the Doctor and the Guard. The Enemies. He could hear them whispering about him. How they'd found him in the Yard after following the trail of blood that led from the three dead men. The three dead men with their hard looks, feral grins, and wandering hands- They talked of how they found him, how they found him sitting there laughing, gurgling really, on the ground, the shank still protruding from his throat. Hands shaking with blood loss and knuckles torn from fighting back. Runner listened to their fearful whispers and smiled. No more running...  
><em>

The dreams- memories- plagued him under the unrelenting lights of solitary. In confinement, there was no bed, no blanket or even a pillow. Just a toilet and bright florescent lights left on twenty-four seven until the prisoners inside lost all track of time, feeling like they'd been in there for eternity.

_...After Shawn gave way to Runner, and Runner stopped meaning he ran and became the other way around, Shawn spent most of his time in solitary. Some days he would repeat Jackal's name over and over again in his head, trying not to forget that there was more outside than this room and two tasteless meals a day. He found himself dreaming of pineapples, trying to remember what they tasted like, and watching reruns of all of the eighties shows he had ever seen in his head. Over and over again..._

It was on a day like that that Shawn Spencer died and Runner took his place.

_...It started with one man. Eyes dark and brooding, he approached Runner and Jackal, setting his tray down at their table with a decisive clang. The newly tattooed skin on his shoulder was an angry red, making the pineapple that covered the dagger that used to occupy the space even more obvious. Runner leveled an appreciative look at the man, who bowed his head. Runner nodded with a half-smile. The man had offered his neck, offered vulnerability to him for a place at his table. In exchange, he was a Brother, an Hermano. Over the next few weeks, the table slowly filled up, and the men were sitting up straighter, smiling, unafraid with their pineapple tattoos boldly flaunted...  
><em>

It would be three years before Runner would be approached by an agency, an agency with a job for him, a temporary work release, and he would take it. And he would remember. Remember a man he once met, a man like him. And no one would ask about the hours Runner spent in the library, finding the others. No one would ever question him. And Runner wouldn't seem to mind 'solitary' very much any longer. He was Runner, and all doors were open to him.

_...Runner lit a cigarette and drew a long pull. Like smoking would kill him now?_

* * *

><p><strong>The Reviewers Room:<strong>

**For all you wonderful people:  
><strong>

**Kalvinanne:**

I'll try to make the figuring out thing more difficult, and throw in some more Badassery to keep you hooked. ;-P

**Dragongirl15:**

You said they're a bunch of your favorite characters? Extra credit points for you if you mean Jude, too. I'm excited that you came back, kept reading. I hope I make it worth it. Right now it's a little difficult because I lost all of my plot notes a while ago so I'm flying by the seat of my pants with this one. I got a few ideas, though. This plot bunny is hopefully gonna work like really bunnies and pop a few new ones out, if you can pardon the expression. More for you soon! (SS) [#] (pineapple for you)

**ProudToBePurple:**

Hello, my dear, dear reader. Kudos for you! New readers always deserve some love so I'm giving out an extra one of my precious pineapples to you, too. [#] (Don't squander my blessing but eat the God's fruit with appreciation and I won't squander your readership by updating when you review)

**Mdrat:**

It's not ahead, I just update the chapters differently. Good to know someone else is crossing over between Psychfic and ff. Thanks for the compliment! I'll try to update both!

**P3xWhatever:**

You're just gonna have to wait and find out on this on. The might... :) Otherwise, thanks for the review. You know I love them more than jerk chicken, which is saying something. Badassery tag is a go! Let's start a movement!

**Torchil:**

Here you go. Gotcha an update. If your still ecstatic then I've done my job wonderfully. Please review and let me know what you think. I'll have less of my version of fluff in the next chapter and more of my favorite thing: BADASSERY! WHOOP! WHOOP! Hope ya like it, too.

_**To the rest of you: All my love, but please review. I know it's bribery (or blackmail or something) but I'll post faster and I might add a little something for ya if you request it. May you have a loverly week. And a loverly time waiting for my next update :^[ (mwahahahahahahaha) **_


	11. Chapter 10

**Runner says I don't own him. I beg to disagree. He is one of the few things I do own. Psych is not one of them.**

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><p>Sorry for the slow, short update. I've been a bit preoccupied and ill recently. Also, look for the Mulan moment in this.<p>

* * *

><p>Shawn stared at his face in the cracked edge of the motel mirror, watching the thin rivulets of water, like tears, roll around the thick ridged scars that covered his face. His clean shaven, tattoo- less face. One hand went up to brush gently across his jaw, coming up with a thin sheen of cover-up.<p>

He hated hiding. Hated every goddamn moment spent in crappy motel rooms, sleeping in chairs with his back to the wall and getting eaten alive by the bed bugs anyways. He hated the memories. He could almost imagine being there again, in the first few months, trapped in a cell with everything he used to love a distant memory. He could feel the burning shame and the track marks up his arm from injections, not all doctor prescribed. He had hated himself, blaming himself for everything. He'd lost everything.

Now, with the prison being examined the way it was, he wouldn't have Jackal by his side for a few days at least.

Turning away from his fractured reflection, Runner snarled and punched the wall. That prison had changed him. They said that if you didn't go in a criminal, you'd sure as hell come out one. He'd tried to protect them. He did. All of the young clean shaven boys with the wide, frightened eyes and frail shoulders. All of the aged faces lined with remorse from years of suffering through the guilty nightmares that haunted them.  
>And then the innocent ones. All of the innocent ones. He had tried to protect them all but still the faces flashed before him, the faces of the ones he couldn't save.<p>

It wasn't just inside, though. These… trips… had started as a way to reduce their sentence. The CIA, FBI, the whole fucking alphabet wanted someone like him. A genius with eyes that missed nothing. Not that there weren't others like him, but there were so few in their control.

At first, he had no choice. He was a good tool, a good… weapon. It was because of that that they pretended not to notice when he began to branch out. When things spread beyond the prison walls, they turned a blind eye. Their weapon now worked both ways, too powerful for them to stop. But he was good. In more ways than one.

The Kid had been right. Runner was good. Even if he tried to hide it behind the pain and darkness that haunted the sad hazel eyes. He was damn good.

Runner brushed a towel lightly over his damp face, then, with gentle but firm fingers, molded the soap slices over his cheekbones. The paste he had created on one side let them stick. He powdered over them gently, changing the shape of his face with everyday bathroom items. Next, he grabbed the tweezers and ghosted over his eyebrows, molding them slightly differently with a hair here or there. With unfailingly steadfast hands, he ran wet hands through his hair, slicking it back.

While this process took the course of two minutes or so, Runner's posture gradually changed. He favored one leg, but held his chest out and his body erect, giving the illusion of a greater height. Plugging the base of the sink, he filled the sink basin with hydrogen peroxide and dunked his hair in it. The cold mixture tingled running down his scalp. He left it in, giving it time to do its work and lighten the tone. He was almost ready. Tomorrow the Brothers in Orange had a new assignment.

Two hours later, he emerged from his room. The whole space had been wiped clean.

Not that that was necessary…

He had talked to the warted man years ago and gotten his hands on a coveted pineapple. It wasn't for eating though. Using the citric acid in the pineapple and a needle, Runner had burnt away his finger prints, the final signs of who he used to be.

If he could get rid of DNA, he would. Then he'd have no more connection to his alcoholic father who ignored him and his mother who'd abandoned him one to many times. There would be no record of him or all that he had been.

Indeed, as the tall, blond business man in the Armani suit and Ray Bands swaggered with the slightest limp away from the motel, presumably to find more suitable lodgings, he looked nothing like Runner, let alone the infamous Shawn Spencer.

High cheekbones and quizzical brows gave the appearance of arrogance, while the outfit spoke of money. His bearing spoke of power and his gait spoke of experience. The only thing that related that man to the bedraggled criminal who had slunk in a few hours earlier was the hazel eyes. Cold and determined, they swept the world around them vigorously… yet somehow gave the impression of looking into the distance, of looking into tomorrow.

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><p><strong>You! Yes, You! Reviewers, you know who you are! Just in case you don't...<strong>

**Destany Mitchell:**

Everybody loves badassery, m'dear. Stumbling is quite good. Very good indeed. However, another way besides stumbling is: If you'd like the names of some good Psych stories, go to my account and in my favorite stories click organize by category and scroll to Psych. I really hope I didn't irritate you with all of the waiting for the next chapter and that tomfoolery of mine. It's lovely to get a review from you and to know you're reading. - SylverSpyder (p.s. It's late, so if I sound crazy... who am I fooling? I always sound crazy !) Bye Mate!

**ProudtobePurple:**

Don't worry your lovely head... I'm dying over here, too. No time to write! I'm like the white rabbit and I feel so darn guilty for putting it off because of wonderful people like you. Jules is in for a major load of guilt, by the way. I owe you one for all your lovely words (I feast on them), so if you send over something specific you want to see, I'll do my best to stick it in. -SylverSpyder (p.s. have you ever been targeted by the purple people eater? I hear purple people are nearly extinct now because of that devilish fiend.)

**Thewarpedmind1:**

... Thank you... Man, for someone who writes and feasts on words as I do, it is rare that I'm speechless. (I can count the number of times on one hand, actually.) Thank you. (I love your name.) Weird story, the other day I said I was going to go eat a nice, juicy, golden pineapple and someone thought it was a euphemism. Thank you for reading. I hope you tell me what you think of this chapter. I know it's incredibly short, but I'm doing my best to keep up with life in general. - SylverSpyder

p.s.I can always take people of any age (that goes for both you and your first born) into my ranks for world takeover.

p.p.s. I.O.U. one pineapple

p.p.p.s. can you tell at all that I'm sleep deprived?

**Kalvinanne:**

In the state I'm in, I'm not sure what to say to do you justice. You are awesomer? Your awesomnitude is stunning? I will make my next update as freaking huge and freaking awesome as I can? I wonder how many new, nuesome words I can make up in twenty-four hours? (Not that that has anything to do with anything.) How about: I'm glad you're touched. I'm a bit touched, too (in the head), I love badassery, too, and these characters are awesome and if anyone needs a short bio on any of them I can provide one in my next chappie.

-SylverSpyder

p.s. I felt I owed you a ps since everybody else got theirs already.

**Psychic101:  
><strong>

If a Runner fight you want, a Runner fight you'll get.

p.s. because of your wording, I also had the idea of having a bit of Shawn vs. Runner as in internal, possibly external, arguing. What say you, dear Reviewer of Awesome Name?

**Torchil:**

The first time I read your review I was on Nyquil, so expensive was (of course) registered as explosive and new side made me think of squares... Of course, I'm one to talk! I'm still on Nyquil. Best stuff ever. Until you read the warning label. Four doses in twenty four hours can cause liver failure. I stick to three (and a half). I like to err on the side of caution. Which is one saying I'll never understand... I'm ecstatic, too. Combination of Nyquil and your review. You gave me the warm and fuzzies better than my fluffy bunny slippers. -SylverSpyder**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><span>Pineapples to all, and to all a goodnight. Err... Morning. Apparently it's morning already. Who knew?<span>

_**Final Promise: The next chappie will be longer than my replies to my reviews. Review a lot and I'll write a freaking huge chappie!**_


	12. Chapter 11

**NE MSTAKES OUR CAUSE EYE AIN'T DUNN KNOW EDITING.  
><strong>

**Important AN:  
><strong>

For those of you who've read What He Didn't Say, go to the poll on my profile and tell me what you want continued. There will be another story elaborating on what The Brothers in Orange have been up to during the course of this investigation.

**I don't own Psych or any other show/movie. I only own the rights to two books, and those aren't included.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong><em>Language warning<em> for this chappie (I'm trying to be as realistic in my characterization as possible)  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>my computer is working again so that means UPDATES, Back to the case with this one. If you have any ideas what I'm leading up to, guess. I love laughing maniacally when people try to guess what I'm up to. There are a lot of clues. All you have to do is put them together.<br>**

* * *

><p>Sitting in the observation room, Maggie watched the interrogation with a frown, absentmindedly fingering THE letter. This case was not turning out at all as she'd expected it to be, from finding Shawn to the body itself.<p>

She shivered, tendrils of fear creeping up her spine. What sort of monster lurked behind these walls?

The image of Puppet danced before her eyes.

_The body dangled from the bunk bed, upside down, streams of blood running from where the man's eye sockets had been clawed open, eyes ripped from the skull. Rivulets of blood spattered his hands, scarlet tissue under his nails, hands covered in the remains of his own eyes. The irises were still visible on the upraised palms, glaring at any observers as much as the empty sockets. He hadn't died when he apparently ripped his own eyes out. He died when he used his now-blood-stained teeth to tear open his own wrists, severing veins and arteries and leaving blood splatter like a macabre paint all over the concrete, a single pool beneath him. Some had dried already, a muddy brown against the white walls. Some was still crimson, dripping from the body's matted hair. _

It was without a doubt the most horrifying image Juliet Margaret O'Hara had ever seen. Taking a burning gulp of her acrid coffee, Maggie tried to banish the image from her mind and concentrate on the room in front of her, Carlton's grim face and the harsh lines of the prisoner's body language.

"Tell me what you know about Shawn Spencer."

It was a command, given in hard, unforgiving tones.

"He's gone." The enormous man chuckled. The pineapple tattoo on his neck drawing Juliet's eyes. The room felt cold.

"More dead than Puppet will ever be. Puppet still exists. Sure, he doesn't breathe, but what does that matter? Shawn Spencer no longer exists." The high-pitched chortling broke his words into a staccato sentence. He gasped for breath.

"You're looking at the wrong prisoner." The man was grinning maniacally, the handcuffs that held him to the metal table clattering as he shook with laughter. "This is not Runner's prison. The only prison that holds him is the one he built for himself, the prison of his own mind."

* * *

><p>"Thanks for the tip, John- er, James? I thought you were still on the run."<p>

"It's Jason, now, Shawn. And there's no need to run when everyone chasing you is dead."

"Except for yourself." Runner felt, rather than saw, Jason's head nod in agreement on the other end of the line. There was silence for a moment, then...

"Does that mean that since the whole master-assassin-double-agent-amnesia stuff is over you can start using your Facebook? If so, you should like our 'Brothers in Orange (and Their Melodramatically Mysterious Friends)' Facebook page. You'll get invited to all of our private events. If not, I'll settle for twitter. You tweeting... Now, that's a picture."

The dial tone echoed in his ear.

He set the phone back in its cradle with a smile.

* * *

><p>"Maybe we're asking the wrong questions," Maggie suggested hesitantly, "maybe we're the ones making this case about Shawn."<p>

Carlton stared her straight in the eye. "Maybe so, but there's a pattern here, somewhere, and chances are, it revolves around Spencer, things almost always did seem to."

* * *

><p><strong>Transcripts of Interrogation with Prisoner C19428LFP <strong>

**1800 Hours, Lompoc Federal Penitentiary  
><strong>

**Attending Officers-** Det. Juliet O'Hara of the SBPD

Head Det. Carlton Lassiter, SBPD**  
><strong>

**Background: **Prisoner C19428LFP (also known as Sailor, known member of the Daggers, a Latino gang operating inside Lompoc) questioned in relation to the death of inmate C19476LFP Roger Morris(also known as 'Puppet'). Prisoner C19428LFP was convicted in 1995 of four accounts of statutory rape and physical assault with a deadly weapon, concealed weapons charges, possession with intent to distribute, and first degree murder. He was sentenced to life without appeal. Outside of prison he was a member of the highly influential Twenty-Third Street gang in Los Angeles. Once incarcerated, he became associated with the Daggers. He was a known associate of 'Puppet' (the victim).

**What follows is the transcription of the interrogation of **C19428LFP in relation to the murder case of C19476LFP**:**

_**Det. O'Hara- Are you aware that the death penalty is legal practice for heinous crimes committed in California? **_

_**PC19428LFP-**_** Is that rhetorical?**_**  
><strong>_

_**PC19428LFP- **_**If ****you answer my question, I'll answer yours. **

**_Det. O'Hara- Is this your idea of cooperating, Mr. Fielding?_  
><strong>

****PC19428LFP**- I'd like to do some cooperating with you, Detective. (subject displayed lewd gestures)  
><strong>

**_Det. O'Hara- Good. Then answer the question before I tell you exactly what I'd like to do with you. _  
><strong>

****PC19428LFP**- I'm am very much aware of the state penal codes, since they fucked me over._  
><em>**

**_Det. O'Hara- I am not here to discuss your case, Mr. Fielding, I am here to discuss the case of the murder of an associate of yours, I believe you knew him as Puppet?_**

****PC19428LFP- That asshole? Heard he got knocked off. **  
><strong>

****_Det. O'Hara- And where were you when so-called 'asshole' was killed?_  
><strong>**

******PC19428LFP**- In my cell, most likely, where I've spent the last sixteen fucking years.****

****_Det. O'Hara- Am I correct in saying that you knew the victim? _ ****

******PC19428LFP**- Knew him, but didn't 'know' him. Plenty of guys did though. If you want to know what happened to the fucker, ask the young ones. Puppet liked 'em young. Sick bastard. Not that there's much other play around here. ****

****_Det. O'Hara- Is there any other information that you can provide as to this case?_  
><strong>**

******PC19428LFP- Nah. Wouldn't tell you if I did. I'm stuck here, life with no appeals, the judge said. Behind these walls is all I'm ever going to see. And do you know what happens to people who squeal here? They scream. Squealers always end screaming. You want to talk to someone who knows something, how about you ask the goddamn guards why the hell Puppet bled out in front of them! I've heard about how fucked up he was, and no matter where I am now, I was once a doctor. He would have taken at least fifteen minutes to die in excruciating pain. He would have screamed. So where the hell were the guards? I'm not the one you should be talking to. I got nothing to say. ******

******_Det. O'Hara- Thank you for your cooperation._  
><strong>****

********PC19428LFP- For you? You can have my cooperation anytime, anywhere. And the cuffs, I don't mind 'em. ********

********End of transcripts.  
><strong>******

********Subject was restrained by guards and escorted back to his cell. (1825)********

********Transcript signed by Head Det. Carlton Lassiter, SBPD  
><strong>******

* * *

><p>The Bouncers were big, probably pumped up on the same drugs Emilio Vastedez had been distributing. <strong><strong><strong><strong><br>********

Shawn, still dressed as a business man, couldn't help it. He walked up and poked one of them in the arm, his eyebrows raised and his nose upturned, for once not in the mood to con his way in.

"Sure, the stuff made your arms bigger than mine," Shawn said conversationally, "But I know one part of my anatomy that is now substantially bigger." He paused. "Judging by the sparkle of intelligence and wit in your eyes, let's make that two."

Well, if he HAD to make an entrance... Let's see Emilio ignore that.

* * *

><p>Carlton Lassiter's salt and pepper eyebrows, finally beginning to show hints of his true age, were furrowed in thought. There were too many questions, too many unknowns. Until Spencer got out of solitary, it seemed as if it would stay that way. They had a sexual predator and snitch who killed himself, supposedly under someone else's influence (although according to Woody, there were no discernible drugs in his system, at least, there most likely were none; there was some anecdote somewhere amidst the autopsy notes about an undetectable mystery drug the government is creating and Cuba and whether Carlton would like to join Woody and his wife for donuts sometime, but for some reason Woody couldn't fathom, Carlton's gut said this wasn't a revival of the men who stare at goats. This meant Woody asked Carlton for the privilege of autopsying Carlton's mysterious gut someday, hastily reassuring with a guilty expression that he meant after Carlton had already expired. Of course.). They had a warning from an "innocent" Runner, guards who "hadn't seen anything," the strange method of death, and a distinct lack of security footage of the incident. The door to the cell, Carlton found, rereading the guards' statements, was locked. It showed no signs of being tampered with, yet there was no record of anyone entering or exiting. It just didn't fit together.<p>

_It's a jigsaw puzzle, Lassiepoo. I wonder, was the jigsaw first or the jigsaw puzzle? I've heard it both ways. Jigsaw... That's a weird word. Like cockadoodle-doo. Do roosters actually say cockadoodle-doo?_

Lassiter ran a single hand over his forehead, groaning. Six years and the man was still in his head, goading him. Annoying him. And damned if he didn't miss it.

* * *

><p>Gus smiled as his face collided with the hard concrete floor in solitary. His "Interview With The Vampire," the blood sucking leech also known as Carlton Lassiter, was over, and he was penned for attacking another inmate. He laughed. If he knew what was good for him, the boy would take his advice and stay in the Med Bay till this "Puppet" shit rolled over. Jackal... Well, where Jackal was going, the prison issues would be pretty insignificant. Even Runner's ex, a dead pedophile, and a police investigation weren't important when it came to the mission.<p>

In the solitary cell, Jackal sat up. It wouldn't be long, and he'd be joining his brothers. The plan was slowly but surely coming together.

* * *

><p>Prison guard Emilio Hernandez frowned suddenly. His keys... He grasped at his waist for his ID tag, but he couldn't find it. His hand brushed his pocket and he reached in, pulling out his ID card with a frown. How did it-? He rolled his eyes and clipped it back at his waist.<p>

* * *

><p>Shawn strolled into the club with a smile, knowing his team was there to back him up. The first step of his plan was underway.<p>

At the door in the alley outside the ironically named 'The Alley', two disproportionate men in black, bouncers it seemed, were slumped against the wall, unconscious.

* * *

><p>The interviews were more puzzle pieces.<p>

_"Puppet was getting out. Didn't matter that the asshole was a psychopath. a few words to the warden, and he left the laundry room, was working in the prison office. A few more words and his sentence was reduced, for 'good behavior,'" the man shifted in his seat, scorn written all over his face.  
><em>

Carlton puzzled over his notes, trying to make sense of it.

_"I was doing my rounds. I didn't see anything until I rounded the corner. Then there was this gurgling noise, and he was just lying there and there was so much blood." The guard was stoic. "Don't know why you're making a big deal about it." He reached into his pocket. "Mind if I smoke?"  
><em>

Someone should have seen something, heard something. There had to be a clue, and he was just missing it.

_"I was in my cell. You can check the cameras. Big Brother was watching. You got nothing on me."  
><em>

The faces were hard and unresponsive. The answers seemed to give him everything and nothing at the same time.

_"I'm sorry detectives, but it seems there was an issue with the camera system in that corridor. The picture's not that great, but you do have a view of the hall outside his cell." Raybourne shrugged apathetically.  
><em>

It didn't seem right. A man was dead and no one wanted to do anything.

_"We don't carry weaponry, the only guns are at the gate. We do twelve hour shifts. Guard house is on the far side of the prison campus."  
><em>

Their were several guards on rounds at all times. It didn't make sense.

_"O'Hara, get a warrant to check the guard's bank accounts, see what's going on."_

He had to figure this out. It was his last case...

_"What about the rest of the staff?"_

_"What staff? This place runs itself. Inmates get everything they need done. Every couple of years a state inspector checks for any issues." The warden raised his hands with a smile. "It's a pretty self-reliant community."  
><em>

He couldn't find a flaw in the security. Even the cameras showed no one moving in the hallway outside of Puppet's cell.

_"The mail is delivered once a week. Everything is scanned."  
><em>

Everyone seemed to want Puppet dead, but no one was taking the credit for doing anything about it.

_"The Daggers may have a plan in the works, but this wasn't it."_

_"Did I knock him off?" Enrique Vastedez smirked. "No. I will say one thing, Puppet wasn't fit to wash my briefs, yet alone get parole while I rot in this hellhole." The dagger on the OG's cheek was a direct mockery of Spencer, it seemed.  
><em>

The gang leader's smirk had grated on Carlton.

_"Behind these walls, Detectives, men change."  
><em>

Raybourne's words were grim. The inmates were the same.

_"If you put a dog in a home, he is 'domesticated', put him in a cage, and he is just an animal. You are controlling the dog by putting him in a cage. But did you ever think that to him, you've given him run of his own domain. In a cage, he is in charge, no matter that you're keeping him there. We are men in cages. This is our domain, Detective. We are animals, you say, but we make the rules. You're playing our games, for now you're stuck in the cage with the dogs. The sons of a bitches got everything we need in here, and the import-export business ain't bad. This is our prison, you'll see."  
><em>

The prison doctor had been slightly more helpful:

_"You see, I have a bit of a background in psychology, Detective," He pushed back the curtain around his current patient's bed, pulling Carlton at the same time away from the sleeping man. In the glimpse that he did catch, Carlton felt himself stiffen. The kid looked so peaceful, so young.  
><em>

_ "I could tell you even without it that this place is a time bomb. Los Hermanos have become a direct challenge to the Daggers. Runner, he wouldn't associate himself with a man like Puppet, but he probably is the one who can help you the most. Puppet may have talked too much about what he heard for the men here, but he was still a person. Besides, the sooner you leave here, the better." Doctor Wilson pushed his blond hair of his serious eyes. _

_ "This place is a time bomb and Runner's the ticker. If he ever runs out, it's all going to go to hell. He came into here six years ago, totally unknown, was transferred out a few times after the incident that started Los Hermanos, and he doesn't take shit from anyone. Suddenly the weak ones, Daggers' opposition, were banding together. Together, they aren't weak anymore. Runner didn't tolerate bullies or prejudice, and now he's changed the whole dynamic of this place." The doctor frowned thoughtfully. _

_ "The Hermanos are brothers. The Daggers are violent, unpredictable. The few groups that stay out of these politics, the Latinos and the OG with the Aces, they're like Switzerland, and they normally won't risk a power play because it's the Hermanos who keep the Daggers from going off on them._

_ "There is violence in a situation like this, it can't be helped. I have plenty of patients every day just from cellblock C, and there are seventeen cell blocks and nearly four thousand men in this prison. The only reason you're here is because Lompoc PD refuse to take jurisdiction over a case involving an ex-Santa Barbara resident. The federal powers that be, for some reason, agreed. I have seen many things, but only once before nearly seven years ago have I seen something anything like this. This is a game changer, and you're caught in the middle of it." _

_The doctor shifted, looking at his chart, and Carlton frowned... Then shook his head. He had gotten used to seeing tattoos everywhere.  
><em>

_"Whatever Puppet died for, it was more than just a grudge. The eyes ripped out, the chewed open wrists, it's symbolic. This man saw something, did something, he shouldn't have. When you find out what it was, and who was involved, you'll have your killers." He paused, hesitating. "And whatever you find will be better than this one man's death. You may wish you hadn't found out when you do..."  
><em>

_"Wilson!" The irate head doctor yelled out. "Why does it not look like you're in my office?"  
><em>

_Seeing an opportunity, Carlton stepped forward towards the cane brandishing man.  
><em>

_"Can you tell me anything about Puppet's death that could aid in our investigation? The inmates haven't been very helpful..."  
><em>

_"You want to know how two chemicals interact, do you ask them? No, they're going to lie through their lying little chemical teeth. Throw them in a beaker and apply heat." _

__"Well I want to ask you..." __

__The Doctor cut him off with a single raised eyebrow. "...like the philosopher Jagger once said, 'You can't always get what you want.' I'm a busy diagnostician, I don't have time to enjoy the lovely prison scenery or exchange fashion tips on the colors that go best with orange. I have an appointment with a dying man, and his symptoms are really excellent. Bleeding from his eyes and growing paralysis! ...At least, I had an appointment with him a half hour ago. Hopefully he's not dead yet, then the ME will get all the fun of diagnosing him. I do have an idea of how to treat him. If he gets better, I'm right. If he dies, tragedies happen: I'll owe Nurse Jackson a twenty."  
><em>_

__The Doctor headed away, limping. Carlton stared after him. Wilson rolled his eyes.  
><em>_

* * *

><p>The con was beautifully planned, and beautifully executed. Justice would be served, Shawn thought with satisfaction. It was almost over now. <em>Just to make the man think he's won... <em>Shawn smirked mischievously.

* * *

><p>Sitting down at the computer, Juliet O'Hara knew what she had to do. She had to get into those files somehow. She typed Shawn's name into the database search box.<p>

She had no idea at the time what she was starting. She knew Shawn had friends in all places, but she had no idea how high it really went.

* * *

><p><em>FBI SAC Don Eppes frowned at his desktop. "Shit," he said, bringing one hand up to his forehead in his characteristic. "Something's gone wrong" gesture.<br>_

_"Colby, take care of our witness, I have an issue I have to deal with. Somebody's been looking into a secure file, and I need to know who."  
><em>

_Walking away, Don sighed quietly. "Wonder what Spence has gotten up to now?"  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>Agent Reid of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit was playing with his Physics Magic set when his cell phone rang. His other cell phone. The consulting cell phone. <em>

_"Doctor Reid." He picked up.  
><em>

_There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then, "What's up, Doc?"  
><em>

_Recognizing the voice, Reid smiled. "Nothing much, Doc."  
><em>

_"Spencer, you heard from the other Spence?"  
><em>

_Reid's brows furrowed. "Not since the last consulting gig. I was wondering about him. I saw the alert come in on his flagged file. What has he done now?"  
><em>

_"Made his play. Six years of preparation and things are finally coming together."  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>Agent Coulsson smiled at the NSA's alert as it popped up in his inbox. Somebody had been looking into Runner. The game was afoot, then.<br>_

* * *

><p><em> Crawley glared at his computer screen, already signalling MI6's techs to backtrace the request for information. Mrs. Jones would not be pleased that THIS file, out of all files, was being requested. He couldn't imagine M was happy either. 009 would no doubt be investigating and the inevitable inter-agency issues would be indisputably rough. Reaching into his desk drawer, Crawley was careful to grab the Rolaids that Smithers had said were not explosive.<br>_

_This would be a long week. It was like Kazakhstan all over again.  
><em>

* * *

><p><em> In Thailand's ISOC office, Shoonyndi was careful to talk in English, so if they were heard, they wouldn't be understood.<br>_

_"If Spencer is active again and someone starts looking into those files, there could be a catastrophe on the scale of the Thaksin's assassination attempt issue."_

* * *

><p><em>"Hey Nate," Hardison called out. "You might want to take a look at this. Seems Spence has gotten into something."<br>_

__Suddenly at Hardison's shoulder, Parker frowned. "I told him I would steal him out of prison, but he said he could manage. So, what's up?"_  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>Charlie Eppes smiled into the phone receiver. "I've got one foot in the FBI's door. I heard about the alert, Shawn. Does this mean you're consulting again? It's been a while since the team got together. Brennan's had a kid, you know. Lloyd's out of prison on some sort of temporary basis. Patrick joined up with the CBI after the whole 'Red John' issue. Reid, well he's still Reid, and I haven't kept in contact with Lockie since Mycroft dragged him away."<em>

* * *

><p><em>TBC...<br>_

_**What? Reviews? You shouldn't have... Scratch that. You should have. Repeatedly, and with gusto. Even PMs are welcome. No PMS though. I like to stick to PMs. **  
><em>

_**Anyways, for those of you who know what it's all about-Ahem, Reviewers.**_

_** (It's ten percent luck, twenty percent skill, fifteen percent concentrated power of will, five percent pleasure, fifty percent pain, and one hundred percent reason to remember the name, BTW)**_

_**Torchil: **You'll find out about the assignment soon enough. After I'm finished with this story, I'm posting up a story called Beyond These Walls and one called Brothers in Orange. In those, you'll get all of the juicy details. As to the other issue- Shawn is awesome. Does that work as an explanation? And I have a one-shot about another disguise of his that I may or may not post up. Just imagine this- Gus meeting angry-black-woman Shawn. Really. And a lot of his methods I have tried myself, so these disguises? Tried and true. Thanks for the review!**  
><strong>_

_**Thewarpedmind1: **Your wish is my command. Your awesomely incredible, food(pineapples)-for-my-writing-soul review made me smile so much that I hereby grant you one boon. Two lines, no matter what your pineappliness wants them to be, will be included in my story. You write 'em, and I'll work them into the plot. OR... One OC. Describe them and I will pop 'em in and give 'em a role. That, I've decided is the price of happiness. Thank you so much. Chameleon Shawn will be bustin' out soon. Along with a whole boatload of secrets and badassery.  
><em>

_**Proudtobepurple: **By all means, ramble on... I love slightly hardened Shawn, too. It's like the difference between bread and toast. Add the butter of the plot, some warmth, and harden Shawn up a bit and you have a recipe good for breakfast any morning. Not that I'm a cannibal. Nor you. Well actually, I do not know... ? ;) And I'm sorry it took me so long to update. This whole stupid "having a life" thing keeps getting in my way. I think It's a bit overrated.  
><em>

_**Psychic101: **Hi. Were you expecting that? Darn it, you probably were. Ah! So much pressure. Quick, think of something unexpected... I've got a lovely bunch of pineapples? I love the smell of gasoline? I don't know. Hopefully the story was unexpected enough for you. I apologize if the chapter didn't live up to expectations. It's sort of a "Back at the farm" thing. If it were a prison farm. Thanks for the review. Shawn vs. Runner is on its way. I'm writing it express. I am the FedEX of writers. Or at least I would be. If once more that stupid "real life" thing didn't keep getting in my way. Toodledoo! Have a maaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrvelous day. _

_**This chapter was dedicated to KALVINANNE, for there is no better reply to the AWESOMENITY of KALVINANNE's reviews and dedication to this story. **  
><em>

_**p.s. Kalvinanne, can I abbreviate your pen-name to KA? It's short and it's fitting. **_

_**p.p.s. I hope I'm feeding your addiction.  
><strong>_

_**p.p.s. Thank you for understanding.  
><strong>_

_**p.p.p.s. Was this long and BADASS enough for you, KA?  
><strong>_

_**In conclusion, Reviewers (You know who you are, and after the section above, everyone else does, too), the fact that you took the time to stop and leave a comment for me says so much about you wonderful people and I hope you get a lot of the same happiness as your stories are reviewed by others (and me, as soon as Real Life leaves me alone for a little while, you know what I'm reading). Thank you all.  
><strong>_

_**For those of you who didn't review... Please do. I'm not quite sure about this incredibly long chapter and some comments would be incredible.  
><strong>_

_** SS  
><strong>_


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